


Revolution:Defiance

by williewildkat



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Mental Anguish, Physical Abuse, Rape, Resistance, Sexual Violence, Torture, Violence, blackout - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williewildkat/pseuds/williewildkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be Miles/OC with the events prior to and currently occurring in the series. Assuming the worldwide outage took place in 2012 the year will be 2027. And yes it looks like Nora is going to be an old flame of his….*groans inwardly* Without giving too much away off to the races as they say!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolution:Defiance

**The Grand…..Chicago…..2027**

Once the darling of the upper crust of Chicago society, she now stood as a chewed out skeleton, a pathetic show of her former glory days. The doors had been piecemeal with boards as the original wood and paint had rotted and sloughed off from the unforgiving elements. On the street that paralleled her grand but chipped and neglected staircase a market of goods and services were traded, a modern twist on an old practice. All that was missing was the traveling minstrel reciting song and poem of times long ago, of the age when the lights were still strong. A modest boat was being dry docked in the middle of the road with a few men scraping and repainting the hull. A woman sold leather goods and fishing lines to the men and women who spent countless days on tumultuous breakers of Lake Michigan and beyond. A few feet down the way a fight broke out between two women over the fair pricing and negotiating of a bushel of apples. Such scuffles were not uncommon in the post Outage world. There were no police or law enforcement to subdue either one for the police had disintegrated along with the other basic services during the Outage. Bystanders ignored them as they would wind down and soon resume their stations as merchant and consumer once again. That was how it worked in this new world.

When one approached the faded stairs and reached the main entrance, the doors would flood the front and mid sections in a deluge of sunlight which temporarily stunned the patrons. Overhead a faded warped arrow with the words Parking This Way still legible in bold ebony lettering, still working to guide the nonexistent guests. The patrons hollered and downed their drinks in the poor but sustainable light of the candles and flames that allowed for the drunken rowdy throngs to carry on. Most were vagabonds and transients, seeking work on a fishing trawler or other related industry. Industry, the name had taken on a less polluted meaning since the Outage. There were no women save for the brunette working behind the bar. Her hair was restrained in loose band keeping her eyes unobstructed. While most patrons were harmless drunks, there was always a few who would instigate something from time to time. Pity the ignorant male who attempted to tussle with her. The Bowie knife was concealed behind her back, the loose fitting but form flattering cover of olive added extra coverage. There was also the Browning under the bar, her choice. It had been fired one time since she arrived. Poor bastard was stupid enough to enter her world so he paid the price.

"You know you're classing up the place, Alex." The gravely male voice echoed quietly in her ear.

"Good to know," she spun around planting her hands on her hips. "This place could use a woman's touch Miles."

"Funny," he snorted humorlessly. "You with a woman's touch?"

"I'm hurt," she jutted her bottom lip out in a faux pout. "How could you say such a thing?"

"As long as I've known you Alexandra you were never a dainty doily kind of girl. You never did ."

"And that's why I'm alive and not Monroe's whore." Her toned turned serious as her fingers dug into the softening oak, struggling to suppress the living nightmare that crept into her consciousness. Her mind drew a blank stare as the distant glint gathered in her eyes. Her breath was clipped as she fought back the surging traumas of the past.

Miles slipped an arm discreetly around her waist detecting the tension stringing her voice. He knew it was a subtle but powerful method in calming her. Her hand clawed his, driving her fingers into the rough callouses that crowned his knuckles. Alex had accomplished what no other person could claim: She escaped Monroe and lived to tell about it. Alex didn't like to talk the captivity; of torture and rape. Monroe was convinced she knew where Miles and Ben were but she wasn't about to tell him shit. The son of a bitch could keep carving the Bowie into her arms and legs but she wouldn't betray a syllable. It had been after her self-liberation that Alex had reached Chicago and found Miles. At first he had not recognized her as she had stolen a shirt and pair of pants that belonged to Monroe as she had been deprived of basic human needs. He had mistaken her for another member of the militia until she uttered his name in a struggled breath.

_Miles….._

Ghost would've been understatement. Miles was stunned when she stumbled through the door and collapsed against the stool, tumbling over with the seat of the furnishing smacking her in the side. Her face was crisscrossed with faint angry trails. Her hair was disheveled as though she had been put through a wind tunnel. But as he had kneeled down, something caught his eye. The yellowish purple bruise was hideous against her light olive skin. Her pupils were dilated but fixed on his as her mouth lay partially open, reminding him of a fish gasping for its last breath.

It had taken Miles time patience and compassion until Alex emerged from her semi catatonic state. She had been kept in a closed part of the hotel, shivering and mumbling incoherently. The midnight crescents that clung fiercely to her eyes had aged her by a decade! Her nails were cracked from the continuous injection of shoots over a prolonged period. But those were not what made his anger rise. It had been one morning she was flat on her stomach, lost in the planes of consciousness, unresponsive to the subtle swipes of water and cotton. Miles had swept her hair aside, to cleanse the layer of perspiration of course. As her neck lay exposed to the light he froze with hand suspended. There, etched at the base of her skull was the Monroe insignia. It was how they marked concubines and other prisoners taken in war. The permanent curves and peaks stood out in the bold streaks of ebony. It was Monroe's personal mark. The cold sickening sensation circulated through his veins, nauseating him as the whiskey churned violently in his stomach.

_What did he do to you?_

To this day she couldn't recall the memories of Monroe's demonic hold over her without losing control of her mind and body. Miles didn't ask as he had seen the consequences of such intrusions. Early in her arrival, he had made the mistake of asking what had occurred which rewarded Miles with a vacant stare which was succeeded by curling up into the fetal position and shivering like a small dog.

"I want to kill him for what he did to you."

"And blow our cover? You and I both know we have to stay incognito. Revenge will wind up getting us drawn and quartered."

"Well it doesn't mean I can't dream."

"Just remember I get the first shot." She added a sinister smile that was matched with an equally eager one from him. Her eyes had brightened eliminating the fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

"That's my girl," Miles squeezed her waist with his arm a final time then released her before arousing any looks or suspicions. Chicago was still large enough they could retain their obscurity which played heavily in their favor. They had not seen the militia as of recent but it didn't mean they wouldn't harass their place of business. The Monroe Militia included Chicago as part of its patrol, ensuring that its definition of order was maintained and to watch for a pair of wanted "fugitives." For Miles and Alex the minions dispatched had no clue to their identities.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to space out like that." She pulled away and started for the back desiring a moment of solitude. Miles let her go as she continued to need her space and time. Some days she kept him close while others she was distant and cool in her mannerisms. Alex would be quick to apologize once the episode would pass but Miles would wave off the apology.

_Alex I understand. You need to heal. I've seen this in Marines that came back from Afghanistan and Iraq. I will help you through this but please don't close me out._

She refused to shut him out of her life. Miles had evolved into her beacon in the storm. Eventually she started working in the tavern, earning a reputation for taking no one's shit. Her small stature had created an idea that she was weak, helpless, and vulnerable. One brute had learned the hard way and met the sharp end of her Bowie one cold Chicago winter night. That was all it took for the others to keep their distance. A few others had been rewarded with a flick of the blade in her hand when that look wandered into their eyes along with a small shake of her head.  
*******************************************************************************************************************************************************  
 **Central Indiana…2027**

General Sebastian Monroe could feel his patience waning. Normally his demeanor was cool and unwavering; a throwback from his days in the Marine Corps. His eyes were those of a steel trap: beautiful but deadly. His form was not large or blessed with iron ripples of muscle. But then again strength wasn't always physical. It was part of his success in campaigns and as a general.

His opulent quarters were lined with solid planks of the finest wood that the militia could retrieve from former mansions and luxury hotels. Of course there were furnishing and a few art pieces that complimented the otherwise simple settings. Behind him was a solid flap that acted as a wall between his front meeting area with his men and where he slept or sought privacy. Today he was seated in the antique 18th century chair behind the teak desk. A glass tumbler of bourbon sat untouched, silently pleading to be given attention.

It had been what, 5 years since he lost one of his prized possessions and no trace or track of her had been located since! How could she have been so elusive? He had dispatched his best men into the four Cardinal directions of the Republic after her absence was discovered. Neville had headed up the campaign, scouting town after town, settlement after settlement only to return with nothing. No stone had been left unturned, no barn left unsearched, and no house left unscathed. Someone was helping her.

"Miles Matheson," the name rolled violently off his tongue and past his lips. It had to be! Who else would be able to offer her quarters and keep her out of sight?

He rose and went for his quarters with intent steps, going straight for the small wooden chest that was kept locked. The key resided in his right pocket. It was an old fashioned brass key, one that was out of the old Victorian stories or houses that dotted Charleston; before the Outage that is. Monroe slipped the brass key from his pants and held it level with his steady gaze. He studied it for a moment before sliding it into the keyhole then clicking it to the right. The lid lifted unveiling what lay concealed inside the solid confines of oak and velvet. Once he got her back what the box held would make her think twice about escaping him again.

"General," the courier called out from the other side. Monroe slammed the lid shut and returned the lock in its rightful position.

"Yes," his voice was cold in greeting his subordinate.

"This arrived from Captain Neville."

His left hand trembled as it extended the rolled up dispatch from his top commander. Monroe snatched it up and looked at the younger man dismissively.

"Go," he barked. The boy ran as though he was being pursued by wild dogs as he fled the general's quarters. Monroe shook his head as the backside of the weaker one vanished behind the flaps of his tent and out of his sight. He was a more recent draft into the militia.

Monroe went for his chair, deciding it sit and draw the tumbler into his grip. His lips parted ways, letting to slightly cool liquid gold cascade into the waiting abyss. So far they had not tracked Ben Matheson down which was slowly transforming into a very tedious and tiring expedition. Monroe hoped this would be some lighter news for once.

He unrolled the cloth protective covering as the chalky trails greeted his eager eyes.

_We have located Matheson and are proceeding to intercept and retrieve._

_-Neville_

This was good news indeed! The Captain had come through!

_Until you bring back Matheson DO NOT think about returning to camp!_

His final words had stuck with his commander. Monroe knew Neville wanted to return to his wife and home but the mission had to be completed.

The scroll sat in an unruly heap as he leaned back and continued to savor the tumbler's offering. Suddenly a dark and malicious smile slid up onto his lips. If Miles learned of his brother's arrest then it could lure him and Alexandra out. Then nothing could stop him…

**Author's Note:**

> What could be in Monroe's box? And how will Alex react to Charlie's arrival and her entourage?


End file.
